


Closer (the Cello Song remix)

by Nympha_Alba



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cellist Merlin, First Time, History Professor Arthur, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:19:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nympha_Alba/pseuds/Nympha_Alba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin meets Arthur by chance in Gaius' office he's taken aback by a history professor being so gorgeous, and soon he's thinking about Arthur every waking moment. But Arthur isn't about to let him in, and Merlin has to work hard to bridge the distance between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer (the Cello Song remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mapping the Distance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140251) by [Emjayelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emjayelle/pseuds/Emjayelle). 



> Warning: Age difference - Arthur is 11 years older than Merlin in this story.
> 
> Dear Emjayelle, it was a bit daunting to get you as my remixee but it gave me a good excuse to immerse myself in your writing. I _had_ to go for your gorgeous story Mapping the Distance - I mean, who can resist History Professor!Arthur? I can't; Merlin certainly can't. My remix is not as beautiful as your original story by far but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Thanks to my betas A and S for all their help. Any remaining mistakes are my own.  
> Last but not least, thanks to the mods for making this happen!

_You would seem so frail_  
_In the cold of the night_  
_When the armies of emotion_  
_Go out to fight_

Nick Drake, _'Cello Song_

"Wait for me in my office," Gaius had said, and that's why Merlin is standing in this drab university corridor now. Two business cards in holders next to the open door tell him this is the office of Gaius Greenwood and Arthur Pendragon.

Merlin peers into the room where there are no people but two desks, two desk chairs, two visitor's chairs, tottering heaps of paper and an astounding amount of books. The sunlight through the thick, old window panes is rippled and golden-green.

"Hello?" says Merlin stupidly and jumps at his own voice, looking around to make sure no one noticed.

What did he expect, that Gaius would materialise from a patch of sunlight or pop up out of a book pile? Politely, he knocks on the door as if that in itself will give him permission to enter.

Gaius' desk is easily identifiable. Professor Pendragon is a young man, according to Gaius, and even if young by Gaius' standards could mean anything, Merlin doubts Pendragon will have that many pairs of reading glasses strewn over his desk. Gaius, who constantly misplaces his, seems to buy them by the dozen.

Besides, there's a leather jacket over the back of the other desk chair, and Merlin has definitely never seen his uncle in one of those. In fact, the very thought of Gaius wearing that garment makes him grin.

Merlin drops his rucksack on the floor and spreads out his sheet music on top of the books on the desk. Better make use of the time. Gaius will be at least another half-hour.

The music comes alive before Merlin's eyes, unfurls in his head. He imagines his fingers on the neck of the cello and the bow dancing across the strings, his movements making the instrument sing. He is so immersed in his music that he doesn't notice anyone coming in until he looks up with a start to see Professor Pendragon at his desk. 

The world holds its breath. So does Merlin. It's one of those moments so laden with importance that everything seems to stop.

He hadn't been prepared for a history professor to be this gorgeous. He hadn't expected to be so shaken, so stunned. Why would he? They know less than nothing about each other. And still...

A slice of light stretches diagonally across the desk and reaches Pendragon’s shoulder, touches his face, his hair. His gaze is on Merlin. He looks puzzled, a little tired, a little sad. 

Merlin remembers he needs to breathe.

I'll make a joke about this later, he thinks; about how violins sounded in my head the first time we met. 

But it's not violins, it's a cello, and his head is always filled with music anyway.

"I'm Merlin, by the way," he offers, continuing a conversation they've never had.

 _Come on, Merlin. Try not to be weird._ He unfolds himself, rounds the desk and extends a hand towards Pendragon who takes it, still looking puzzled. 

Merlin can't help wondering if Pendragon feels it too, the jolt when they touch, a fizzing, electric current up his arm to his heart.

Pendragon murmurs: "Arthur Pendragon," withdraws his hand and turns his eyes to his computer screen, making it clear he doesn't want to talk.

He is already "Arthur" in Merlin's head.

Merlin watches Arthur through his eyelashes, listening to inaudible music until Gaius comes back after his lecture.

***

If Gaius thinks it's strange to find Merlin in his office all the time, he doesn't say anything. Merlin is grateful for that. He wouldn't know what to do if he couldn't just drop by on the off-chance Arthur is at his desk. While he pretends to be waiting for Gaius he studies his sheet music and occasionally does some real work, but his focus is always Arthur.

When Merlin is not in Gaius' office, he daydreams about the light across the desk, touching Arthur's shoulder with a patch of bright, golden green. He daydreams about Arthur's eyes, about the pain in them; the loneliness that is apparent in Arthur's face when he doesn't know Merlin is looking. The sadness that sits at the corners of Arthur's mouth. All those things that Merlin wants to kiss away.

Arthur doesn't seem to know what to make of Merlin. Sometimes he watches him with a look that Merlin can't make out. Guarded. Searching.

Maybe he thinks Merlin is too much of a student in the way he kicks off his shoes and puts his feet on the seat of the chair while his fingers move, making silent music. Now and then, when Merlin catches Arthur's eyes on him, Arthur flinches as if it physically hurts.

But as the days go by, Merlin begins to see something else in the depth of Arthur's eyes, something that looks like longing, like fascination when Arthur watches Merlin's hands, at times almost like hunger.

Arthur isn't indifferent, and in Merlin's heart, hope begins to grow.

***

When Merlin walks down the corridor towards the office, the sound of laughter comes cascading through the open door. A woman perches on the corner of Arthur's desk, a gorgeous woman with long legs, dark, glossy hair and perfect skin. Her hand is on his shoulder. They obviously know each other well – Merlin has never seen Arthur so relaxed. He's never seen Arthur laugh before, either, and it transforms his face. The sadness in his eyes seems to be for Merlin only.

Quietly, Merlin sits on Gaius' desk chair, kicks off his shoes and pulls his feet up, watching the woman wipe tears from the corners of her eyes.

"I've missed you," Arthur tells her, smiling up at her, and Merlin hugs his knees to his hollow, aching chest.

"She's beautiful," Merlin says after she leaves. Stupid. No need to point that out; Arthur has eyes to see. "Are you - I mean - " He sounds like an idiot and laughs at himself, rubs at his stubbly cheek and fills the room with sandpaper noise. "Are you going out with her?"

It's absolutely none of his business but he needs to know. Arthur is quiet for a moment, as if he needs to think about it, replying at long last: "No. She's my best mate. Oldest one, really. The only one who can put up with me."

That's the most information Arthur has ever volunteered.

Not the only one, Merlin wants to say: I can. I would. I will.

He has no right to make any kind of claim on Arthur, any at all, but he'd be prepared to keep that promise if Arthur only… if Arthur only wanted it. If Arthur wanted _him_.

Suddenly Merlin can't help smiling. He can wait. He can wait until that glimpse of hunger he sees in Arthur's eyes from time to time can no longer be suppressed.

***

Merlin isn't usually this persistent. If he's interested in someone who doesn't return his interest, he gives up. But Arthur _is_ interested - only Merlin can't tell in what way. There seems to be some battle going on inside Arthur, some kind of complicated dance. If Arthur takes a step forward and Merlin responds - which he does, because how could he not? - Arthur immediately withdraws as if he burned his fingers.

I'm not your student, Merlin wants to shout. I'm not off limits. I'm here and I'm all yours if you want me.

Well, that's the question, isn't it?

***

On his way to Gaius' office after practice, Merlin runs into Elena and Freya in the quad and they duck in under an archway. The rain is bouncing off the paving outside and Merlin is thankful for his new cello case. It's got backpack straps and he unhooks them from his shoulders, putting the cello down gently beside him, with himself as a shield against the rain.

"We spotted you from a mile away," Elena says and points at the case. It's poppy red, so bright the colour is reflected on their faces like a blush. 

Merlin grins. "Yeah, I think it might be visible from the moon."

The girls laugh.

"It must have cost a fortune," says Freya. "It's one of those carbon fibre things, isn't it?"

Merlin nods, spinning it around so they can admire it. "I couldn't have afforded it on my own. Gaius said if I paid half, he'd pay the other half."

"Nice." Freya sighs and gives her own, scuffed violin case a sorrowful look.

Maybe the poppy-red case isn't visible from the moon, but it's certainly visible from across the quad, from where the coffee cart is. Merlin doesn't need to see Arthur to be aware of his presence. The back of his neck feels hot with Arthur's gaze.

Merlin doesn't acknowledge it, though; doesn't turn around. Vindictiveness is not very nice but he wants to pay Arthur back for the beautiful woman on the desk corner, wants to make Arthur's chest just as hollow and achy as his own had felt that day. So he tells silly jokes and makes the girls laugh, watching their pretty faces glow in the drabness of the rainy day.

There, Arthur. Maybe that will make you _think_.

***

Time to amp it up.

Today, Merlin doesn't stay at Gaius' desk but walks over to Arthur's, close enough to smell a faint fragrance, from his shower gel perhaps. He wants to put his hands on Arthur's shoulders, lean down and kiss his neck, breathe in his smell warm from underneath his shirt collar. Instead, Merlin leans over to look at the cork board on the wall. There's a picture there, an art postcard he's noticed from where he's been sitting but never close enough to make it out.

"What's that?"

After a second, Arthur removes it from the board and hands it to him. "George Frederic Watts. The Minotaur."

It means something to Arthur, something special, or it wouldn't be on the board. Merlin takes it reverently, like something valuable.

It's a strange creature, the Minotaur, with the head and tail of a bull and the muscular torso and arms of a man. There's an oppressive atmosphere in the picture, a sense that something terrible is going to happen, but it's not clear whether the threat is coming from the Minotaur or is directed at it. It could either be in danger or _be_ the danger. It's waiting, half turned away from the viewer, looking at something in the distance from behind a parapet. Its back is curved, tense, but the beast looks forlorn somehow. Lonely.

"Is it your favourite?" Merlin asks. A childish question.

Which can't be answered properly. "No. Not really. In a way."

Merlin laughs, not at Arthur but at himself. It serves him right to get a vague reply. 

"That makes no sense," he teases, handing the postcard back, watching their hands the brief moment when they're holding opposite edges. "Does it mean something?"

It obviously does, but Merlin wants to hear it. Give me _something_ , he wants to say. Let me see your walls crumble.

"Like that song you listened to on repeat," he says, giving Arthur an example of what he wants, "while on a roadtrip with your best friend, and every time you hear it you can still feel the sunshine on your face and the wind in your hair. Or that pastry smell that brings you back to your mum's kitchen when you were a kid, licking batter off wooden spoons. It's hard to dissociate these things, you know?"

He waits for Arthur to react, to bite, like a fish. Come on, take the bait. Swallow it. Give me something in return.

It's not the first time he's done this, handing over morsels of himself, and sometimes there's a spark in Arthur's eyes when he does. At other times, Arthur winces.

Merlin backs away, sits down in the visitor's chair on the other side of the desk. Maybe Merlin's little bits and pieces really are painfully trivial. Maybe Arthur still sees him as a student. But Merlin isn't a child. He is a professional musician, an artist in his own right, and twenty-four going on a thousand.

To Merlin's surprise, the story comes. It's chopped up in bits and pieces and leaves out more than it tells, but it's there like a gift. It's a story about Arthur as a boy, visiting an art gallery with his mother and looking at this painting for a long time, wondering why there are tears on his mother's face.

"I knew it," says Merlin quietly. "I knew there was a story there."

"Did you?" Arthur shakes his head, smiling a little. Then, of course, the inevitable withdrawal comes. He straightens his back as if he just caught himself doing something forbidden and must at least pretend to work, shuffling papers around aimlessly.

Merlin nods towards the postcard where it's been returned to its spot on the cork board. He wants to show Arthur that he observes, that he draws conclusions from the precious few things he knows. That he wants to know more about Arthur, much more. "It's faded and worn, and yet it's right there, right in your line of vision. You can see it every time you raise your eyes. It had to mean _something_."

Arthur laughs and a thrill of joy runs through Merlin, a trickle of warmth on this grey, rainy day. Laughter makes Arthur look so different, his eyes bluer than ever. Merlin wants to see him like this often, wants to hear Arthur laugh again, close up. So close he can put his ear to Arthur's chest and hear it rumble like thunder.

This is how Arthur is meant to be. Happy.

***

Perhaps they crossed some kind of line that day, or unlocked a door, because Arthur begins to open up. It's slow and gradual, but at least they're getting somewhere.

Small steps.

An accidental meeting in a coffee shop. Merlin deciding to move from Gaius' desk to sit opposite Arthur. (Arthur frowns a little at Merlin occupying the visitor's chair but doesn't protest.) There's a lunch, not accidental but planned, and Arthur giving Merlin a lift home… Every little step brings them closer, but not close enough. Not by far.

Then there's the second time in the coffee shop, the one when it begins to dawn on Merlin what it really is that bothers Arthur.

The windows are half covered with steam on the inside, streaked with icy rain on the outside. It's one of those days when, if you can't spend all day sleeping, you spend it whining. Everything seems colourless apart from the man beside him. Arthur is always in glorious technicolour. 

Merlin puts his head on his arms on the table.

"All my friends are slowly getting paired off," he complains. "It's scary, you know? Soon it'll be marriage and babies, and…" 

And he will still be sitting opposite Arthur's desk, staring longingly. It's a depressing thought. He wishes that once, just once, someone would look at him like Lance and Gwen looked at each other last night, besotted and glowing.

Arthur looks into the distance. "All my friends are married and have families."

Something in his voice makes Merlin look up. We're the same, he thinks, we're both left out, but he feels it worse than I do because he thinks he's already too old. Too old for all that. Too old for _me_.

And there it is.

He wants to push the table aside and take Arthur's face in his hands, stroke the hollows beneath Arthur's cheekbones with his thumbs and kiss him until he knows how wrong he is and the loneliness has melted like a patch of snow in the sun.

Small steps.

Instead, Merlin stretches his legs under the table so his foot collides with Arthur's. He doesn't move away. Neither does Arthur.

***

"Come," Arthur says, "I want to show you the real painting."

They walk through the galleries side by side, Arthur telling Merlin about painters and sculptors, about the history behind the works - this one was ground-breaking, opening the door to a new era; that one over there was created in the chaos of war... It's mesmerizing, listening to someone talk about a subject he loves. Arthur is more present than Merlin has ever seen him - his voice is confident, his eyes are steady and calm, his hands are drawing figures in the air.

"Well, here we are. Here it is. The Minotaur."

They're standing so close together their elbows touch, looking at the painting until Arthur breaks the silence. 

"What I love about it is that there are so many ways of looking at it. Watts was an allegorical painter but you don't need to know that. There are levels of symbolism here that you can know about - or not; you feel the power of the painting without knowing what any of it means."

Merlin nods, tilting his head. "It's a really ugly picture, isn't it? The sky is pretty with all those little clouds, and I like it that the sea and the sail in the background are just sort of sketchy, like a _suggestion_ of sea and sail, but the Minotaur itself.… it's so grotesque you feel sorry for it. And isn't that parapet boxy and weird? It takes up so much space in the picture."

Arthur nods slowly. "The cropping is a bit strange, maybe, but I like the raw emotion, the weight of having the Minotaur fill the entire frame... There's no room for anything but this creature. As a viewer, you're kind of overwhelmed by that powerful body and its capacity for destruction. After all, the Minotaur is standing there looking out over the sea, waiting to feast on human flesh! But there's so much loneliness there as well… and self-loathing. I think that's what my mother saw. The desire to obliterate the monster that is you. To live is to be a murderer; the only way to feed is to kill. It's perfect. It's terrible. Everyone can relate to that, or at least that's what I'm thinking now, nearly thirty years later. There's no one to liberate you. You have to do it yourself, by whatever means."

Merlin holds his breath. This is the most revealing thing Arthur has said in all the time they've known each other, more so than the conversation about all his friends having families. Merlin's chest begins to ache for the loneliness that Arthur recognises in this monstrous creature.

"It's the loneliness that speaks to me," Arthur continues, echoing Merlin's thoughts. "Look at the way the Minotaur is turned away from the viewer, at the tension in its body. Is it looking for its next victim or is it just trying to stay alive? Does it know of its fate? Is it going to climb the parapet next and fall to its death?"

Merlin turns and looks at Arthur, who turns at the same time, and their eyes meet.

"Seven youths and seven virgins on that ship, isn't that what you said before?" Merlin asks.

"Yes."

Merlin returns his gaze to the painting. "Well, maybe he'll climb the parapet or maybe he'll just take the stairs." He's grinning now. "Maybe he's sick and tired of being lonely, and he'll rush down and greet the ship and then they'll all have a party."

Arthur looks at him for an astonished moment before he laughs, then turns away, shrugging. "Let's move on."

The physical distance between them has shrunk from the width of an office to two inches of air between Merlin's left shoulder and Arthur's right. The distance of ten years' worth of experience is harder to bridge, and Merlin has begun to understand that this is what causes the sadness in Arthur's eyes, the reluctance to even try.

But we don't need to bridge the distance, Merlin thinks as they sit on a bench. We just need to accept it, and then we can ignore it.

He's aware of Arthur looking at him but stares straight ahead, stretching out his legs in front of him. When he feels the warmth of Arthur's hand on his own, he jumps and catches his breath. _At last._ He lets the breath out slowly. He doesn't want to say anything, doesn't want Arthur to, either. He just wants to be kissed right here, sitting on the wooden bench in this brightly lit gallery, and then be taken to Arthur's place and kissed again, and he doesn't want to leave Arthur's bed, or his life, ever again.

"I'm too old for you," Arthur says. His voice sounds thick, as if he needs to swallow. Like it costs him, saying those words out loud.

Merlin looks down, trying to think through the sound of a waterfall in his head. There's no cello music now, only noise. Shouldn't that be Merlin's decision - whether Arthur is "too old" for him or not? Or is it one of those inverted things, it's-not-you-it's-me, and it really means Arthur sees Merlin as a child?

"Too old for me?" he asks, his voice low and tense. "Or am I too young for you?"

Maybe he put Arthur off with that irreverent comment about the Minotaur. Did he make it sound as if he wasn't taking it seriously? He turns his palm up to meet Arthur's, because if he won't get to hold Arthur's hand again, he wants to do it properly at least this once.

"Isn't that the same thing?" Arthur asks.

"No, it isn't. It isn't at all." The gallery is still and silent. What was peaceful before is oppressive now. "You don't even know, do you?"

Arthur frowns and repeats: "I'm too old for you."

But he's beginning to falter, because it comes out like a question. The noise in Merlin's head recedes and the cello music is back. Merlin interlaces their fingers and begins to hum.

***

The practice room at the conservatory is bare and practical for its purpose - arched windows and white walls, parquet floor, wooden chairs, a few music stands huddled together by the wall.

Merlin positions the cello, closes his eyes and lets the instrument sing, focusing on making its voice expressive. 

He's come to realise that if he truly wants to convey his feelings to Arthur, he can't use words. He's not good with words; they come out all wrong sometimes. His music never does. In his music he's precise; he knows exactly what he's doing and he can pour all his emotion, his wishes and dreams and all his longing, into it for everyone to hear.

Not everyone _will_ hear it, though. But Arthur will.

***

Merlin has to make sure. "You're coming tonight, right?"

He's leaning against the door frame, adrenaline already pumping in his veins. If he's not nervous before a concert, it's a bad sign.

Over by the desk, Arthur puts his pen down and looks at him full on, unguarded for once. That hunger is there in his eyes and Merlin's heart begins to slam. 

"Of course I am."

Merlin can't stop his smile and Arthur smiles back. Merlin turns to leave and then turns back again, drowning in the sound of his own heartbeat. "I'll see you after, then." A breath. "Arthur?"

This is it, the heads-up, the preamble to his confession. Something in his voice sinks into Arthur like a hook, making him stand up, half alarmed.

"The first piece," Merlin says, "after the intermission. I'll play it for you."

The line is taut now, reeled in. Arthur stands in front of him, close. No distance at all.

Arthur's hand slides along Merlin's jaw and his fingers find their way into Merlin's hair, and then there are lips on lips, dry, until Arthur sucks Merlin's bottom lip into his mouth for one vertiginous moment. When he pulls back, Merlin's legs are trembling and he stares at Arthur, wide-eyed. But if he had expected something dramatic, it doesn't come. Arthur only nudges his nose with his own, smiling, and Merlin feels his own smile pulling his mouth taut.

"I'll listen," Arthur says.

***

It's the performance of Merlin's life. If he never gets to play anything ever again, at least he'll know he bowed out with a flourish. When he plays like this, those times when everything just falls into place and every single note is right, he disappears into his music as if he no longer has a body but is pure soul, poured out into the music, unaware of anything around him. This time he feels Arthur in the audience like a focal point, an anchor keeping him in the room, in the world. He directs all his longing, all his desire, all his love towards Arthur - for all the world to hear and Arthur to understand.

***

Arthur's bed smells like himself, like he did when Merlin leaned over him to reach the cork board. It brings reality to the dreamlike quality of applause and post-concert adrenaline, flowers and champagne, the taxi ride when Arthur took Merlin's hand and kissed his palm, sucked his fingers until Merlin moaned. It's new and familiar all at once, making Merlin's heart wild in his chest.

"You can fuck me, if you want," Arthur says, and Merlin could come just from hearing him say "fuck".

When Arthur slowly works himself down on Merlin's cock to ride him, it's the hottest thing Merlin has ever seen. He throws his head back, moaning, and Arthur begins to move, leaning forward to lick the hollow at the base of Merlin's neck.

"I want you, too," he murmurs. "I always do."

Merlin draws a breath, lying still to take in the words, lying still to stop himself coming way too soon. Then he squeezes his eyes closed, so hard he feels tears seeping out at the corners, and clutches at Arthur to take him deeper, move faster. He pulls his knees up for traction and it's so good it makes him laugh. Arthur laughs with him, moaning against his skin as he comes.

***

Some time during the night the rain turned into snow, and when they wake up the world is white.

"The weather's finally made up its mind," Arthur says.

Merlin isn't sure what he refers to, but Arthur sounds pleased so it must be good. He turns on his side and curls himself around Arthur's warm, sleepy body, pressing into him until there's not an inch of distance left between them.


End file.
